


On concrete canvas, I'll go making my mark

by craple



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Relationships, F/M, Mental Instability, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 09:38:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s sitting on her porch with a cup of hot vodka-induced cocoa, translating a page of the bestiary when her nightmare takes shape and kisses her knee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On concrete canvas, I'll go making my mark

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT WHAT IS THIS EVEN I MEAN. THE AMOUNT OF LOVE I HAVE FOR THIS SHIP IS NOT HEALTHY.  
> warning: underage drinking, minor, _minor_ ~~possible~~ sexual content. enjoy.

The day Jackson leaves town, Lydia puts Coldplay on repeat, the song _‘Hurts Like Heaven’_ in particular, obnoxiously loud as her player lets her – _thank god, her mother is at work_ – which is, _very_.

No one understands her, the way she feels now Jackson is gone. For as long as she knows, he is the one who finally makes her _feel_ , not in the Fantastic Romance of Scott and Allison kind of way, but the _Hey, Apparently Your Douchebag Personality Riles Me On_ kind.

Lydia thinks it’s twisted at first, and definitely unhealthy. She has boys trailing after her since third grade, people treating her like the queen she deserves to be.

Jackson both ruins her life and makes it perfect. Days with him she spent, thinking this is sick, they’re going to crash and burn, but it’s going to be perfect either way.

It’s a bit ironic that Peter Hale, the one person who haunts her dreams, filling her nights with endless realistic nightmares, shows her how wrong she has been.

\--

Monday morning, seven days twelve-hours later after Jackson’s departure, Stiles asks her out.

His call is short and simple, so unlike Stiles on daily basis, Lydia thinks he’s someone else entirely until he repeats her name, voice soft and firm, snapping her back to reality.

“Are you alone?” she asks. It doesn’t feel right not to.

There are noises in the background, barely-audible if she hasn’t been paying attention; the rustles of sheets, bed creaking underneath someone’s weight, a low deep groan rumbling off someone’s chest. Footsteps, loud at first then faint the next, a disapproving growl she is accustomed to and associates as that of a werewolf’s.

If she hasn’t been paying attention, Lydia thinks, she’s going to say it’s Scott. But Scott spends the rest of the week with his mother, just the two of them out in the wilderness.

Lydia doesn’t think Stiles and the Lahey boy, Isaac, are close enough to share a bed, platonically or otherwise. The possibility is still there, small as it is.

And there’s Peter Hale, and he’s –

“No, I’m not,” comes the reply, steady against her ear. “But he’s not – it’s fine, it really is.” His voice wavers a bit at the end, though. Stiles is convincing himself as much as he’s convincing _her_ , and Lydia feels flattered at the amount of attention this boy is giving her, taken or not.

“You don’t have to, Stiles,” Lydia says, _tells_. “I’m fine.”

She wonders how long it’ll take to convince herself that she really is fine.

\--

Out of boredom, Lydia paints her nails dark purple and shades them all with crimson.

Out of boredom, Lydia picklocks her mother’s liquor cabinet and drowns them all within five hours.

She’s watching Inglourious Basterds and laughs at every skin-splitting scene, because it seems appropriate at the time, her nursing a (sort of) broken heart with one hand, a glass of vodka with the other.

Plus, the rage – it builds up, keeps building up to the point she _might_ going to repaint the entire house or burn it down in one go, depends on whichever destructive tools available at hand.

Lydia doesn’t expect to have Peter Hale at her house, gently, _oh so gently_ , lifts her chin between his thumb and forefinger, while he drinks the half-empty – as she is the half-empty sort of woman now, somehow – glass of vodka clutched in her hand.

He’s still holding her wrist, her skin burns where he touches her, but it’s loose and not at all what she has expected it to. The rim of the glass brushes his lower lip tentatively. It curls into a half-smirk when she huffs and lets it go.

The glass doesn’t shatter. Not so surprisingly it pisses her off.

As if sensing her non-talking policy during her silent mental breakdown, Peter smiles.

He straightens his posture swiftly, the sudden loss of skin-against-skin contact causes her to shiver, and hands her a stack of papers clipped together from beneath his black trench coat. Atop it is _‘For Lydia’_ written elegantly with red ink, a messy doodle of werewolf’s face scrawled on the bottom left of the paper.

Interest piqued, Lydia looks up, and tilts her head.

“I heard you are the destructive kind when you’re depressed,” says Peter. “Translating them would occupy most of your time, until school starts, that is.”

He’s halfway through the open window when she calls out, drunkenly, “And what makes you think I _will_?”

This time, Peter’s smile is not so much of a smile; more like a smirk and a grin, and something between. It sends a fresh wave of _heat_ coursing through her belly. Lydia doesn’t find it unpleasant, not exactly.

“Because you’re Lydia,” replies Peter cheerfully, in lieu of a proper explanation. “When you’re interested at something, when you set your mind on something, you will always get it, in the end.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Lydia looks at the paper and considers dumping it into the fireplace.

\--

She doesn’t.

\--

She’s sitting on her porch with a cup of hot vodka-induced cocoa, translating a page of the bestiary when her nightmare takes shape and kisses her knee.

When Peter caresses the cold skin of her cheeks, palms her flat belly, then heats her cold, cold body with his hands and his lips between her thighs, Lydia finally feels alive.

**Author's Note:**

> title is taken from coldplay's _'hurts like heaven'_. also, there are a lot of this song's references in this fic, so i think i sort of need to say that? yeah.


End file.
